– it sensed nothing to fear – but her senses were over-stretched and exhaustion had made her too tired to sleep deeply. By dawn she was again in the saddle, her back resolutely to the crimson blaze of the sunrise in the sky behind her.
Lady Gordon was completely confused by the arrival of her young visitor. The dishevelled clothes, the dusty, exhausted horse, the absence of escort or anything to prove her identity beyond the haughty demeanour and Isobel’s insistence that she be received at once by the lady herself were all most perplexing.
‘But who are you?’ Lady Gordon stared at her visitor in astonishment.
‘I am Isobel of Fife; the earl is my brother,’ Isobel smiled demurely, only half aware that she looked more like a peasant than a lady, with her peat-stained face and hands. ‘I have been held prisoner at Duncairn Castle. Lord Buchan wants to force me into marriage. I knew you would help me.’
She was thoroughly enjoying herself now, her hunger and exhaustion temporarily forgotten, as she became conscious of the circle of men and women behind her, listening open mouthed to her dramatic appeal.
She held her breath, her eyes pleading, as Lady Gordon stood up. The reference to the Earl of Buchan had evidently struck a chord with her. Her pale cheeks had coloured violently. ‘Nothing would surprise me about that man! You poor child. What a terrible thing! Of course we will help you!’
Isobel sighed with relief. She was safe.
Within an hour she had been fed and wrapped in warm blankets and put into a bed. Only minutes later, hugging herself with excitement, she was fast asleep.
It was two days before she discovered her mistake.
Running upstairs to join her hostess who was spinning in the comparative comfort of the solar as the soft rain fell outside, Isobel, pausing outside the door to grope for the handle, heard a male voice. It was full of excitement. Almost without realising it, she stopped to listen.
‘My God, mother! Do you realise what a strong hand it gives us? That child was no prisoner! She is Buchan’s betrothed. She has been lined up to be his bride practically since she was born. And we have her! It gives us the key, don’t you see? If we hold her he’ll have to agree to our demands over our boundaries and give us back our lands. All we have to do is say he must agree or he won’t see her again! She’ll have an accident of some sort, and disappear!’
On the landing, Isobel closed her eyes.
In the solar, Lady Gordon stood up, agitated. ‘How could you be so stupid, my son! He would never allow himself to be blackmailed! He’ll come and take her by force, killing every man, woman and child here and burning our roof over our heads while he’s at it.’ Isobel could hear the sound of her skirts catching on the dusty heather strewn on the floor as she paced back and forth. ‘Dear God, I wish Patrick were here. He would know what to do! We cannot defy Lord Buchan, we cannot!’
‘You were prepared to hide the girl.’
‘That was because I believed her. I thought she was being held against her will.’
There was a laugh. ‘She probably was. She probably has a lad somewhere she would rather marry. She’ll learn.’ He sounded cynical. ‘When she’s a countess.’
Isobel waited to hear no more. Cold with horror, she turned and fled down the long staircase.
The servants had been given no orders about her, and the surly ostler was leading out her palfrey in response to her imperious demands when from the gatehouse they heard the sound of the watchman’s horn. She froze as the heavy gate opened, staring at the white mist of rain beyond it, her mouth dry with fear, and hope died as she saw the band of horses milling around the gate. More than half of them wore the livery of the Earl of Buchan.
Sir Patrick Gordon looked her up and down as he dismounted from his horse. ‘So, the rumour is true.’ He turned to the grim-faced man who waited, still mounted, at his side. It was Sir Donald Comyn, steward to the household of the Countess of Buchan. ‘It appears, sir, that the Lady Isobel is indeed our guest, but not, I think, an unwilling one.’ He glanced at the doorway behind her where his son had appeared. ‘We have resolved our differences with Lord Buchan,’ he said curtly. ‘The matter has been settled. And now I am glad to see that we can give his lordship earnest of our good intentions by returning to him his lady. There was a rumour at Scone that she had been kidnapped. I knew that could not be the case. I am glad to see that she found a friendly roof to shelter her until Lord Buchan’s men could come for her.’
Behind her in the doorway Isobel heard the sharp hiss of breath as the younger Gordon turned towards his father.
The young man glanced at her, and for a moment Isobel was terrified he was going to tell them her story. He looked at her thoughtfully and she saw his eyes soften. Whatever he had been prepared to do to her to get his own way, he was not going to betray her now.
‘I understand Lady Isobel was lost on the moors whilst flying her hawk,’ he said slowly. ‘It was lucky she found her way here. Because of the mist we had not yet managed to dispatch a message to Duncairn to say that she was safe.’
Isobel saw the naked relief in Sir Patrick’s eyes. Turning to his son she gave him a grateful smile, then slowly she began to descend the stairs towards the horsemen.
‘I have summoned my son from the south.’ Lady Buchan was standing by the table sorting through a pile of bright silks as Sir Donald ushered Isobel into the solar. ‘He shall know of your escapade in person.’
Isobel raised her chin a fraction. ‘I got lost on the moors. The Gordons were most hospitable and kind.’ She turned to Sir Donald in mute appeal.
He nodded. ‘I gather the little lady was out with her bird,’ he said. ‘She became confused in the mist. She was lucky to have found shelter.’
‘Rubbish.’ Lady Buchan swept the silks together into an untidy heap and turned her back on them. ‘You do not have to leave the castle alone at dawn in order to go hawking. Were you running away, my lady? Trying once more to avoid marriage with my son? He does not meet your requirements, I gather.’ There was no humour in the cold eyes.
Isobel clenched her fists. She held Lady Buchan’s gaze as firmly as she could. There would be another beating, but the pain would soon be over and then there would be another chance to escape. ‘I do not wish to marry anyone, my lady,’ she said.
Lady Buchan gave a harsh laugh. She glanced at her steward then back at Isobel. ‘Indeed. So you intend to enter a convent?’
‘No! Yes …’ For a moment Isobel looked away from her, confused.
‘There is no other use for a woman. Either she belongs to God or she belongs to a man.’ Lady Buchan walked thoughtfully towards her accustomed seat and sat stiffly down. ‘If I thought God had called you to his service, Isobel, neither I nor my son would dispute the right of the church to take you. But you have no such calling. You are destined for a man. Your father and he settled it many years ago, and the king has agreed.’ She gave Isobel a cold smile. ‘You belong to my son.’
‘I shall belong to your son at Michaelmas, my lady. Until then I belong to no one but myself.’ To Isobel’s surprise her voice sounded determined, even defiant.
Lady Buchan smiled. ‘A Michaelmas wedding would have been very pleasant,’ she said quietly. ‘As it is, I think a summer wedding would be even better.’
